CHAPTER ONE
Sex with a stranger.
Well, not technically a stranger, if you bought into semantics. But near enough.
As of four hours ago, His Royal Highness Tariq Kassis Amari, Emir of Assan was her husband. Although they’d spent less than a day in each other’s company, they were now married, for better or worse.
Despite their legal intimacy, Rebecca couldn’t quell the army of butterflies that was battering her insides furiously. The time had come to cement their union, and instead of feeling shy or nervous, she was strangely excited.
One of the six attendants she’d been staffed with had shown her the concealed doorway, discretely tucked behind a Renaissance masterpiece. It had sprung open silently when touched in just the right spot to reveal a wide, carpeted corridor, lined with lamps on either side. Though the lamps were now powered by electric bulbs, they looked ancient, and it wasn’t hard to imagine they’d been there since the Royal Palace had been built three hundred years earlier.
Rebecca took in a shaky breath. At the other end of the straight hallway was another door. One that would open into a matching bedroom; that of Tariq, the Sheikh, her husband.
Her attendants had been dismissed. After a long day that had started with the traditional Katb el Kitab and finished with an elaborate wedding reception, they were almost as exhausted as she.
Despite the tiredness that sapped through her body, there was a force of adrenalin, too. She had not expected to be attracted to her husband. But she was. Desperately. One look from the Sheikh had the ability to turn her bones to water; to fill her soul with longing. No one had been more surprised by the force of her desire than Rebecca.
At twenty four, she remained a virgin. Not for lack of opportunity. But while her girlfriends had been indulging in one night stands, and impassioned holiday romances that burned out as quickly as they had shone brightly, Rebecca had been immune. She had come to believe she simply lacked the ‘sex’ gene. Then, twenty four hours ago, at their official engagement ceremony, the reading of the Fatiha, Tariq had walked into the room and stomped all over that idea.
Dressed in long, flowing white robes that made his olive skin look sinfully rich, he was tall, at least six feet five inches, and broad shouldered. Muscular. Strong. His eyes were what had done it though. Almond shaped and thickly rimmed with black, curling lashes, they were a golden honey colour, flecked with green and brown, and they seemed to glow with secrets and mysteries.
Only, he had seemed determined to barely acknowledge her, as though her very presence was a minor inconvenience in his regally blessed life.
She had known this arranged marriage was at the will of his parents, the previous Sheikh of Assan, Fatih, and his Queen Consort Aliyah. Through the tension in his body, the coldness in his face, Tariq had made it clear that he was there as a dutiful son and Prince. Against his own desires and wishes, that would have dictated his right to select his own bride. He had no expectations of anything from his bride besides the requisite procreation of his noble line. Eight hundred years of Kassis Amari Kings had ruled Assan, turning it into one of the most prosperous Kingdoms of the Arab world. And the burden of delivering the next in line rested on the newlyweds.
When her father had signed the contract of marriage, twenty four years ago, could he have known that he would be foisting his daughter on such an unwilling groom? She didn’t know, and she couldn’t ask him. Fourteen years ago, her parents had been killed in a motorway pileup, and any knowledge of the marriage contract had died with them. Her grandfather too had passed away, leaving her more or less alone on earth. Only her adopted parents remained, and they had been as surprised as anyone to discover that their disappointing adopted daughter had been hand selected to marry into one of the oldest royal families in the world. And as scary as the prospect was of marriage to a man she’d never met, she didn’t hesitate for even an instant in saying ‘yes’. Fourteen years of being ruled by her adopted parents’ cruel and unkind manner had finally ended. She was free.
Or was she? Had she simply jumped from one prison to another? Admittedly a far, far more gilded cage, she thought, running a hand down the raw silk gown she had been carefully wrapped in. Her attendants had spent the better part of the evening preparing her for this moment. She’d been bathed, massaged, oiled. Her long blonde hair had been brushed until it shone, while every other hair on her body had been painstakingly removed. Finally, the luminescent turquoise robe had been fitted to her slim frame. It was slightly sheer, and in the right light, there was no disguising the fact that beneath it, she was naked. On top of her head, an elaborate black diamond and gold headpiece had been placed. She hated to think what such baubles would be worth. Undoubtedly more than she earned in five years at her job as a Special Education teacher in an outer suburb of London.
Her hand stilled on the solid mahogany door. Should she knock? Or walk in? This was an established Assanian tradition, and yet she felt besieged by uncertainty. And anticipation... What would it be like to be made love to by a man such as Tariq? For he was so very masculine, so totally desirable.
In spite of the emotional abuse she’d suffered at the hands of Winona and Greg, or perhaps because of it, Rebecca had become adept at shielding her indecision. She employed that skill now, arranging her face to reflect calm and control. She was now Queen of Assan and this was her husband’s room. She pushed the wooden surface in the same carved space that was mirrored on her own door, and it sprung open, just as quietly, just as readily.
The Emir was standing at the Mashrabiya, the ornately screened window that overlooked his private swimming pool. She could only see his profile, the aquiline nose, lips that were slashed into his face, cheekbones that looked made of steel. Unlike many men in Assan, his face was clean shaven, but there was a hint of a five o’clock shadow on his square jawline now. His eyes, those eyes that must be filled with Bedouin charms, that had bewitched her instantly, were hooded.
A sliver of pale moonlight bathed across him, and he looked so magnificent, that she couldn’t help her soft intake of breath.
He spun, instantly, his face expressionless as he took in her appearance.
Winona and Greg had gone to great lengths to make sure Rebecca had no vanity. If she had ever thought herself passably pretty, they had well and truly disabused her of such a notion. Her blue eyes were so blue they looked fake; her lips too full and pouty, ‘sluttish’, Winona had told her repeatedly; her nose too snub at its tip; her blonde hair, naturally as fair as sunshine, looked cheap and tawdry. Rebecca knew her figure was her only redeeming feature. She was tall, six foot without shoes, and naturally slender. Though even her body had not escaped Winona’s rapier sharp cruelty. Her legs were too coltish, her breasts non-existent, her pale skin ghost-like. “Nothing attractive about a tall skeleton draped in a sheet,” Winona had told her repeatedly, with a shake of her head as she drew her tiny little eyes up and down Rebecca’s developing body.
The silk gown she’d been draped in was stunning, and under the gaze of this impossibly handsome Sheikh, Rebecca felt every single insecurity bubble back to the surface. It didn’t matter how many friends had told her she was beautiful. Standing there, across a bedroom that suddenly seemed to chasm before her, Rebecca felt unmistakably unworthy. She dropped her gaze away first. That was a mistake. When she turned from him, her eyes unintentionally landed on the palatial bed at the heart of the room. It was enormous. At least twice the size of a normal double bed with four posts that rode to the ceiling and gauzy curtains suspended on each side.
Rebecca gulped and looked back to her groom, with no idea how innocent she looked.
Tariq hardened his resolve. “My sacrificial bride,” he murmured, and his voice was warm and thick, like the Arabian winds that blew through the dessert beyond the palace walls. His stride was long and he crossed the room, so that he was standing just in front of her.
“Sacrificial bride?” She repeated, her eyes held prisoner by his darkly intense stare.
“How else would you describe this ritual?” He muttered, and she thought she detected distaste in his voice. Truthfully, Rebecca had thought it all sounded very romantic when she’d first learned of it. Of course, that had been before she’d met the man in question.
“You don’t approve of the final stage of a royal wedding?” She hedged, struggling to keep her face impassive and her voice calm.
“Not in this instance,” he answered immediately, and his eyes were at once amber and green. She felt her heart quicken at what he was suggesting. He was only saying what she already knew. She was not pretty enough for him. His reputation as a playboy preceded him. He had dated models, supermodels, actresses, royalty. All of them beautiful and glamorous. Rebecca Beaumont from Bourton-on-Water was none of those things.
If she were the kind of girl to blush, she knew her cheeks would have glowed pink. Instead, the only tell-tale sign that his words had upset her was the way the thumb of her left hand rubbed compulsively against her right index finger.
“I... I’m sorry if I’m not what you were expecting.” She said quietly. And she was. Sorry for both of them. He fulfilled every single one of her fantasies and she was clearly a let-down. It was disheartening, to say the least.
“You are just what I was expecting,” he corrected, his tone harsh, his eyes bitter. “Beautiful. Graceful. Poised. Demure. Virginal,” As he listed each virtue his voice rang with more and more offense. “My father chose well.”
“But you resent anyone making you do anything,” she surmised.
A muscle flexed in his jaw. “I was born to this position. I have always known what my responsibilities would entail.” He spoke the words automatically, and something about his delivery made Rebecca certain that he was lying.
“But you don’t agree with arranged marriages,” she pushed, certain there was a cause for his frustration, beyond her disappointing looks.
“My parents are happily married; theirs was an arranged marriage. It is not the marriage so much as...”
“So much as the bride.” She finished for him, her pale eyes clouding with confusion. “Why did you go ahead with it?” She whispered, turning her head to look beyond him, to the Persian tapestry hanging on the wall.
“It was my duty. Why did you go ahead with it?” He intoned caustically, despising himself for finding her attractive. Her chest was rising and falling at pace, as her breathing was ragged, and he had to employ his self-discipline to avoid staring.
“I...” She swallowed back the lump in her throat. What could she tell him? Because her father, who she had loved and adored, had wished it? And that even though he had died many years ago, doing something that he had willed made her feel close to him? Or should she tell him that she would have married the devil himself if it meant never having to see Winona and Greg again? Buying into a whole way of life completely removed from them and their horrible abuse. Backed into a corner, she went on the attack. “You hoped I would refuse.” She guessed, clarity coming to her in a sharp and instant lightning bolt of comprehension. The way his brows grouped together convinced her she was right. “Yes, of course that’s it. You thought that I would refuse the marriage, and that you would then be free from marrying me, without having to defy your parents.” She lifted her eyes to his. “Tell me the truth, Tariq. That is why you’re so annoyed with me?”
“I have spent my life to date avoiding women like you.” He said with a shrug, waving a hand through the air imperiously.
“Plain Janes?” She asked grimly.
His eyebrows knitted together as he shook his head slowly. “Gold diggers. Mercenaries.” He contradicted, his face showing the smallest hint of repugnance.
It was such an unfair accusation that she almost dropped the protective cloak she kept firmly in place of her emotions. “You think I’m a gold digger?”
“There are worse words I could have used,” he pointed out harshly.
“Such as?”
“Prostitute? Whore?”
Out of nowhere, her hand came up and slapped him hard across the cheek. She was as surprised as he was. He was quick. He grabbed her by the wrist and jerked her close, so that their bodies were in contact. His breathing was harsh as he stared down at her.
“What else do you call this charming scenario? You have willingly brought yourself to my room, for the purpose of sex, in exchange for untold wealth. To me, that’s the definition of prostitution.”
It was such a tawdry spin on the marriage that she felt sickened. It had never occurred to her that he might view her actions in such a light. True, she was not wealthy, but material concerns had never even entered the equation when making her decision. She opened her mouth to deny it and swiftly closed it again. They didn’t know each other well enough for any trust to exist. She couldn’t trust him with the truth of her upbringing, and he wouldn’t believe her if she denied his offensive interpretation of their marriage.
The Wedding Pin, a single diamond tipped pin that held the whole robe together was at the small of her back. Before she could guess his intentions, Tariq reached around her and unclipped it easily, holding her eyes as metres and metres of expensive fabric draped to the ground. His own look was sardonic.
“What are you doing?” She croaked as the fabric pooled at her feet. She refused to show how embarrassed she was. She was used to being shamed and embarrassed. If he thought she was going to break that easily, he had another thing coming.
“Appraising my purchase,” he drawled, stepping back from her a little but keeping hold of her wrist.
Insolently, he raked his burning gaze over her naked body, lingering on her small upturned breasts, her concave stomach, and the flesh that had been waxed completely free of hair, exposing her most vulnerable self completely.
“You have been well prepared for tonight,” he commented slowly, but there was no admiration in his voice, only cool, hard judgement.
She pulled on her wrist but he didn’t release his vice like grip. “What’s the matter, Rebecca? Don’t you want me anymore?”
She swallowed. She shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t. Why was her heart still racing like this? Why was her core feeling slick with moist heat? She should have been outraged, not turned on.
“Because I want you,” he said grimly, evidently not at all happy with his own desire.
She lifted her hooded gaze to his face, trying to understand the complex emotions she saw there. As if against his will, he pulled her towards him, and ran a hand along her stomach, bringing it up to gently cup the small swell of her breast. His eyes stared down into hers, and she refused to look away. Even as his thumb teased the aureole of one nipple, sending shooting sensations spasm-ing through her body, she held his challenging glare.
Sharp, hot spears of need drove through her body and she sucked in a shaky breath as the unexpected feelings coursed through her. “Tariq,” she whispered breathily, when he dipped his head and took her other nipple into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue. On instinct, she pressed her body as firmly against his as she could, revelling in the sensation of his starched robes against her exposed flesh.
His hands roamed down her body, touching gently, evoking goosebumps of sensation everywhere they went. As his fingers moved lower and lower, her body felt aquiver, and she thought she might burst from the pleasure he was providing. But it was nothing compared to how her body reacted when his fingers brushed against the entrance to her core. Gently, his hand separated her thighs and her eyes flew up to his face. She wished she had been able to understand what she saw there. He looked cold and determined, not anywhere near the turned-on mess that she was.
All rational thought deserted her when he slide a finger inside her and teased her clitoris. But Tariq watched, hungrily, as his blushing bride fell apart at his hands. Her passion was so wanton, so innocent, that he felt his own control slipping.
Rebecca whimpered deep in her throat. Her husband was speaking low and quiet in Arabic, and his words were like tiny kisses against her neck. As she felt her body start to spasm pleasurably with total release, she threw her head back and cried out, not letting go of him for fear she’d fall over. She rode wave after wave of blissful pleasure, until finally she could breathe normally once more.
Tariq took a step back from his wife, whose face was flushed with pleasure, her blue eyes holding an unmistakable sheen of desire. He schooled his features to show disinterest.
“Go, Rebecca.”
“Go?” She repeated, her surprised disappointment obvious.
“Yes. Go. I have no interest in claiming your body tonight.” He sounded so calm, so unaffected by her. Of course he was! He was no virgin. This was all very ordinary for him. Except for the forced marriage bit, she guessed.
She bent down and fumbled for her robe, tried to pull it around herself. It was too complicated, with so many folds and tucks and twists. Her hands were shaking with anger and nervousness, as his dark gaze continued to watch her efforts. In the end, she wrapped it around her shoulders like a sheet, simply for modesty.
Although a part of her wished the ground would open up and swallow her to its molten core, she felt a surge of strength as she looked at this man who had married her against his will. “Let’s get one thing straight, Your Highness.” She said with dignity. “I am not your purchase. I am your wife.”
“How could I forget,” he muttered and turned away from her. He didn’t move until he’d heard the door click shut behind his Queen.